


Care

by theunembarrassedalto



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-23 01:59:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theunembarrassedalto/pseuds/theunembarrassedalto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Did you ever tell him?"<br/>"No. How could I?"</p>
<p>In which Jordan forces Nick to think about some things he'd rather not remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Care

"Did you ever tell him?"

Jordan raises her cigarette to her crimson lips and inhales deeply, looking at me with one dark eyebrow arched.

I flush pink. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," I respond coolly.

"Oh, Nick," she says. "What was that you said to me when we last spoke? _I'm too old to lie to myself and call it honor_? Do extend the same courtesy to me."

We are sitting on the outdoor patio of a small, overpriced French cafe in New York, having a light lunch. It was quite by accident that we ran into each other– I'd returned to New York on business, and I had seen a photograph of her on the desk of a colleague. He was her husband, it turned out, and she was Mrs. Fairweather now, and I'd cautiously explained that I'd met her several years before, when I was working in the East. He had been more than happy to invite me to dinner, and the frustrations and sorrows of our last meeting had instantly dissipated when we'd met again. We'd arranged for lunch– just the two of us, to catch up. For old times' sake.

"I'm not lying to anyone," I say firmly.

"Nick, _please_. You know there isn't any point."

I continue to protest until Jordan finally gets fed up and stands. "If you're going to act like a child," she warns, taking her coat from the back of the chair, "I shall leave you here."

"No– don't. Please," I add, hating myself for it.

She sits back down, slowly. "Did you ever tell him?"

"No," I say softly. "How could I?"

"Do you think he would have even been very bothered by it? There was enough scandal at that man's house– yours would have slipped by unnoticed," she says, leaning back and taking another drag of her cigarette. "I'm sure it was hardly the worst thing that went on at those parties."

"Nothing went _on_ , Jordan," I say coldly.

"Oh, really," she says, waving my reproach off with a casual flick of her wrist. "I just meant that you loved him, that's all. I'm sure _you_ wouldn't try to advance it any further than little daydreams, that sort of thing." I ignore the jab.

"Besides," I say, "he had Daisy."

She laughs, short and harsh. "He never had Daisy. Nobody has ever really had Daisy. He had you, though."

"Keep your voice down," I hiss.

"Isn't it true, though?"

"After a fashion, I suppose," I concede, grudgingly, after a moment. "Jordan– how did you–"

"I just knew," she says casually, shrugging one slim shoulder.

"I wasn't–"

"You weren't obvious, no," she says. "And I didn't know at first– but by the end, well, I couldn't lie to myself about you anymore. It's all right. Just careless drivers, the both of us."

"Yes," I say. "Although– more like I should never have been driving at all. Not down the road I tried to go."

She laughs again, a little more kindly. "Something like that." There's a pause, and she sips her champagne before adding, "You really never told him?"

"No."

"You ought to have."

I don't respond, because I think she's wrong. She can tell. "You don't believe me," she proclaims. "I mean, I suppose it wouldn't have _changed_ anything. He only ever loved her, of course, but I think you owed it to him."

"I didn't owe him anything," I say stiffly, placing some cash on the table and rising to leave. I have had enough of this conversation.

"No," she muses, apparently unfazed by my preparation for departure, "you didn't, did you? Because you had already given him everything you had."

To my shame, there are tears stinging my eyes, and I turn my head away, unable to meet her cool dark gaze. "Jordan, please," I say, half whispering.

She stands. "I'm sorry," she says, but there is no apology in her voice.

"You are not," I return, and she does not try to argue.

"Are you going?"

"I should."

"Nick." I look over at her, pretending my eyes are not red from the salty tears I fought back, pretending that I am not tearing at all my carefully stitched-up seams, pretending that Jay Gatsby is not gone.

"Yes?" I say, fighting the slight quaver in my voice.

She just looks at me, as if there are thousands of words she wants to speak but cannot give them voice. "I'm glad I could see you again," she says finally. "Take care."

"Take care, Jordan," I say, and I walk away.

 


End file.
